


The Superlative Degree

by Ravenmaster



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: (of sorts), Dirty Talk, First Time, Frottage, M/M, Murder Kink, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Will's Active Imagination
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-23
Updated: 2016-08-23
Packaged: 2018-08-10 15:34:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7850878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ravenmaster/pseuds/Ravenmaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I am planning on killing you,” Will says, calmly.</p><p>It doesn't throw Hannibal off as much as he had hoped, but his breath does come in slightly sharper than usual. “Even now, you do?”</p><p>Will nods. He feels his heart beat steadily, but quickly, against his ribcage. A small thrill runs down his spine. “When the time is ripe, yes. After everything, I feel that I at least have the right to take what is mine.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Superlative Degree

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: this works contains somewhat graphic descriptions of violence/murder in relation to sex. (In other words, it's kind of fucked up and I'm definitely going to hell.)
> 
> Also, this is my first ever attempt at porn (and at Hannigram, or Hannibal fanfic in general), so I really hope you'll enjoy it!

“Do you still fantasize about killing me?”

The question comes suddenly, unexpectedly, but brought in such a casual way that Will almost misses it. Hannibal doesn't even look up from the plate he's drying as the words come from his mouth.

Will blinks. Then, slowly, he lifts another plate from the suds, and lets it drip for a moment, before handing it to him. “At times.”

Hannibal's voice stays light, curious. “Do you still wish to?”

“A killer with a death wish, really?” Will half smirks at his own comment, for as far as his ragged cheek allows him to. He lightly scrubs another plate, circular motions, consistently, careful. Then, when Hannibal refuses to answer – even refuses to fulfill his drying duties – he continues: “Yes. I still do. You're simply more interesting alive.”

It's almost unnoticeable, but Will is more experienced now than ever in reading the man next to him. Hannibal's blink is slightly more prolonged than usual, his posture changes from relaxed to straight up, chest forward. He is pleased to hear this.

Will hands him another clean plate; their fingers touch as Hannibal takes it. Wet against dry. Very pleased to hear this, then.

It has been four months, one week, three days since the first gasp of air reached Will's burning lungs in the Atlantic Ocean, their rebirth as a same of kin. Four months of equality, understanding, fulfillment, peace. Longing.

Still, still longing. An unspoken, shared hunger that grows with every look, every conversation, every meal that is both impeccable as completely unsatisfying. A tingling tension in the air that has grown to the extend where it's now crackling, sparking. Two magnets held only a fraction of an inch away from each other, ready to snap together. Will is sure he has never wanted someone this terrifyingly much in his life – yet at the same time, he doesn't want it to be like that. At all.

He is trying to scratch a deeply psychological itch with a physical hand, and it won't help. So, he doesn't. Four months, one week, three days, and they only ever touched to help with each other's bandages and stitches. And still, despite the fact that he knows better, it's _agony._

“I am planning on killing you,” Will says, calmly.

It doesn't throw Hannibal off as much as he had hoped, but his breath does come in slightly sharper than usual. “Even now, you do?”

Will nods. He feels his heart beat steadily, but quickly, against his ribcage. A small thrill runs down his spine. “When the time is ripe, yes. After everything, I feel that I at least have the right to take what is mine.”

Hannibal slowly puts down the tea towel, and stares at Will, captivated. “So my life is yours?”

“And vice versa. Depends on who loses interest first.” Will does look up at him now, as he rubs most dishwater off of his hands. The rest of the plates can wait.

Hannibal's tongue flicks over his lips in the blink of an eye. When he speaks, his voice is lower, a deep rumble. “How would you do it?”

A hot shiver crawls down Will's spine, a slow burn through his entire nervous system. His mouth opens to answer, but words don't come. Shouldn't come. Instead, he finds himself reaching out, over the dried plates, the wine glasses, until his fingertips find the wooden handle of the meat knife.

Hannibal's eyes follow him, drag over him like approaching predators, until he sees it too. Will half expects him to disapprove. He doesn't.

No, his pupils dilate. Lips part ever so slightly. Breathing through the mouth, now, instead of the nose. The approval is there. When he looks up, Will raises an eyebrow at him. A nod.

Consent. Please proceed.

The pendulum swings, back, forth, back, forth, and Will has the sharp blade of the knife pressed against Hannibal's pulse point hard enough to feel his heartbeat through the handle, sending little thrills through his body. He's crawling back into a skin he hasn't found himself in since The Cliff, and despite the initial strangeness of it, it feels like coming home, in a way. 

“I would use my hands,” he replies, softly, almost whispering. He doesn't dare look away from his amber eyes, like a mouse hypnotized by a snake except that somewhere in time, they lost track of who is who.

Hannibal doesn't look away either, even when he tilts his head slightly to give Will better access to his neck. His hands are splayed on the cabinets behind him, with his back almost pressed against it too, but there is no fear in his expression whatsoever. “You're using a knife, now.”

“I still want to know what it would be like to cut you open. I can only get one shot at the real thing, but I want a teaser.” The words are morbid, unexpected, yet completely true, and spoken lighter than a feather. “And you want to know if I would really do it.”

A small smile flashes across Hannibal's expression, but it's far from tender. It's almost feral, despite its subtleness. “Yes, I do.”

One deep breath. Another one. Then, a quick jerk of his wrist. He cuts.

It isn't deep, barely even deep enough to need stitches (not that he'll get them if he needs them – it's meant to leave a scar), and by far not deep enough to kill. Hannibal barely reacts, doesn't even wince; all he does is clench his jaw for a brief second, before relaxing again, as red droplets rise to the surface. It's nothing, really, in comparison to the grand total of injuries they both have distributed and received, but it still feels like the first line on an entirely different kind of tally. 

For a moment, Will is captivated by the strange urge to lick that spot, taste it – and then has to try his best not to laugh himself in the face. No. No way. Whatever brand of strange they are, wannabe vampires isn't it. Instead, he wipes his thumb across the cut, hard, smearing the blood along his neck and rubbing leftover soap in the wound until he's absolutely certain that it's stinging, burning. So much for no touching, then.

When Hannibal takes in a sharp breath, he feels a pang of arousal course through him (and can't tell whether it's misplaced or so, _so_ perfectly logical). “I would really do it,” he assures him, as he uses the blunt end of the blade to tip up Hannibal's chin. His heart is beating even more rapidly now, but definitely in a good way. “After all, you weren't shy to cut me open yourself.”

“If you cut me open, you won't have the pleasure of killing me barehanded,” Hannibal argues calmly, or mostly calm, at least. His breaths are slightly more shallow now; trifling had it been anyone else, but a victory when it came to undoing the always collected Hannibal Lecter. “And neither will I.”

Will slowly steps in, until his chest is touching Hannibal's. Now, there are two rapid heartbeats hammering against his ribcage. “This is just a taste of what could have been,” Will explains breathily. “You seem to enjoy the idea of being cut.”

Hannibal licks his lips, and subtly (yet firmly) presses his hips against Will's to make his point. “I enjoy the idea of _you_ cutting me, taking so much pleasure in killing me.”

And – Christ, he does. A _lot_ , apparently, because while Will's initial instincts drive him to almost jump back as if electrified (hopefully before Hannibal would realize how much this turned him on), he doesn't. He still stands there, almost frozen, all his attention focused on the hardening, already _surprisingly_ solid line of Hannibal's cock pressed against him. It's good that his brain is momentarily blank, because otherwise he fears he might have gasped in the worst, most cliché way possible (that would have been followed up by a very feminine 'oh, my, doctor, you're _huge_ ' if it were a porno – which thank God, it isn't, or it would be a majorly fucked up one).

Once his hard drive comes back to life, Will suppresses the urge to instinctively roll his hips and grind against the pressure provides, and cuts right to the chase. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you like the idea of me killing you?”

“You used to be an FBI agent, turned to teacher, because you had problems using your gun when necessary. The thought was too revolting, too confronting, to the point where you preferred to throw away your life instead of taking another's,” Hannibal explains softly. Will doesn't notice how he's lowering the knife, until they are suddenly looking directly at each other again. “You have transformed, Will. You see the beauty that I wanted to show you for so long. The feeling, the thrill, the experience. Your wish to kill me, in a sense, would be a wish to experience me to the fullest.”

He purrs the words like it's the most exquisite poetry, and for a moment, Will is convinced that that's actually how Hannibal interprets it; the highest possible compliment one could pay him. Of course it would be, in a sick sense, the superlative degree of... whatever it is between them.

_Positive – I would die for you_

_Comparative – I would kill for you_

_Superlative – I would kill you._

It would be a compliment for him. An honor.

Silence. Heartbeats. Shaky breaths. “Yes,” Will finally whispers, because he does want that, to experience, to finish the work of art by destroying it. He wants his being to blur with Hannibal's the way Hannibal's has blurred with his for years, has slithered through his pores into the very core of his soul. He wants it, needs it. “To return the favor.”

At that, Hannibal slowly takes one hand off of the cabinets and brings it up to brush an outgrown curl out of Will's eyes. “You already have,” he mutters. “You're my monster, my muse.”

Suddenly, the sharp point of the knife presses hard enough against the soft flesh behind Hannibal's chin to draw blood. A small dribble of it runs down the blade. “I am not your monster,” Will hisses. “And you're not Doctor Frankenstein. I am not your creation. I am not _yours_.”

The hand drops from Will's face, and carefully wraps around Will's own that holds the knife. Slowly, Hannibal lowers it, so that the wound doesn't become deeper. “Then what are we, if not each other's?”

Will hesitates, swallows. Considers.

They are nothing. Everything they used to be is washed out by the rough, pounding, crushing waves of the Atlantic. It washed Dolarhyde's blood off of their skin, stripped them from their carefully structured wedding vows, written in red and pain and bone. The Will Graham he used to be, drowned in the ocean. The Doctor Lecter Hannibal pretended to be, the Ripper he was infamous for being, both succumbed to the burning flames of the salty water.

They're nothing. They have nothing. Nothing but each other.

Will drops the knife, and doesn't care when Hannibal squints disapprovingly at the damage it does to the floor when it lands blade-down. “We're nothing.”

Silence. Will can hear his heart drum behind his ears, the air is thin. Finally, Hannibal finds his voice. “Will,” he mutters. It's either a question or a warning. “Talk to me.”

They're nothing. Years, years, _years_ of Hannibal Lecter poured into his infected mind, with his skull cracked open and his brain dissected; the destruction and the rebuild; the angry, red lines on his torso and cheek that show the cracks of his transformation – all that, the whole thing, building up to nothing.

_We built up to the Atlantic. Anything after that was not supposed to happen. Surviving was a mistake. We're building on a foundation that I let the water tear down._

Will takes a step back, away from Hannibal, away from contact. Too much. “I need a shower.”

Hannibal simply looks at him, almost looks as if he understands – looks as if he _almost_ understands, but even as he nods, he doesn't quite get it, which feels both new and also like an old, worn, smelly sock. They're out of sync. Their radio frequencies have shifted and right now, Will isn't sure they'll ever get there again.

*

Knock. “Will?” Another knock. “It's been thirty minutes.”

It has been thirty-five minutes; Hannibal is walking on eggshells. The warm water still hasn't turned cold; after a six week healing period in a cabin close to the coast, they winded up in Berlin, where apparently, graffiti is art and hot water is limitless, even in their tiny, two-bedroom apartment.

The spray of the shower still burns hot on his reddened skin; his fingertips are raisins. It hasn't helped one bit.

“If you don't give me a sign of life, I'm afraid I may have to kick this door in,” Hannibal warns. 

Silence. 

“No? Then, on the count of three. One -” 

“The door is unlocked.”

“Two – oh.” The handle is pushed down, until the door is open just a crack. “May I come in?”

Will doesn't hesitate. Doesn't care. “You may.”

The bathroom is far from luxurious. There's one sink, one toilet and one shower, all in the same area, without any glass walls or anything alike to separate one thing from the other. There's only a threadbare, flowery shower curtain that gives off the faintest idea of privacy. One that Will hasn't bothered to use, since it always gets stuck halfway anyway. It's easier like this.

For him, at least.

“I doubt drowning yourself in hot water will help you,” Hannibal says coolly, politely averting his gaze, until he ends up looking at himself in the fogged up mirror. 

“It's helping.” That's a lie. “It's peaceful, here.” That's half true, at least. There is something peaceful about burning. After a while, you can't feel it anymore. “You should try it.” He shouldn't. He wouldn't enjoy it. Nobody would.

Will turns his back to Hannibal, and lets the spray soak his half dry hair again. For a while, that's the only thing that happens; he's almost sure that Hannibal is still standing there, but the sound of water splashing on the tiles could have drown out the sound of his footsteps as he left. 

“Mind if I join?”

Again, Will turns, except this time his eyebrows shoot up the moment he comes face to face with Hannibal again. “You're naked,” he concludes, not looking away, but also not quite daring to look down. He feels a thrill run through his body, and he's not sure whether that's shock or excitement. This is new, at least.

Hannibal steps closer, away from his neatly folded stack of clothes on the closed lid of the toilet. “As most people are in the shower.”

He looks Will dead in the eye, the challenge in his gaze very obvious, but the fact that he hasn't already stepped under the spray is also telling. He's giving him an out. If Will says no, he'll stay away – except that they both know that he's not going to say no. Instead, Will steps away to make some space, as the leftover water in his hair still runs over his body.

“Thank you,” Hannibal replies, as he steps in and takes the space under the hot, running water. He lets it run over his back and shoulders for a little while, clear trickles spreading out on his broad, faintly muscular torso, until he leans back a bit more to let it run down his chest, let his chest hair stick to his skin, and turn his various scars deeper shades of pink and red. The bullet scar blooms angrily against his stomach.

Will isn't staring; Hannibal is simply putting on a show. Or perhaps he's putting on a show because he knows Will is, in fact, staring. It doesn't matter, because by the time Will's gaze has dropped to the wet, clinging hair that trails down Hannibal's abdomen, a warm hand grabs his shoulder and guides him close, closer, until Will's back is pressed against Hannibal's chest. 

“Not half as peaceful as you made it out to be,” Hannibal tells him, his voice a low rumble, almost unintelligible over the noise of the shower. A few hot trickles run down Will's shoulders, but most of the water is caught by Hannibal's instead. “Most people would find this temperature highly uncomfortable.”

Will stares at the wall across from him as he feels the steady rise-and-fall of Hannibal's chest. “We're not most people. Especially you.” There's a challenge hidden in there somewhere; 'if you complain about the water, it means you're a stupid normal person'. Will almost laughs at that, like he's an eight year old, for crying out loud. And still, the idea of Hannibal being severely pissed off at the insinuation that he's somehow _ordinary_ doesn't fail to bring a self-satisfied smirk to his face.

“I've endured worse,” Hannibal defends himself, although it only takes half a minute for him to turn off the water again. “You're shriveled up,” he explains, when Will attempts to give him a knowing look over his shoulder. “There is truly no reason to be this unforgiving towards your body – or your mind, for that matter.”

Yet, even as he's saying it, Will can feel Hannibal's fingertips trail over the bumpy, prominent scar across his abdomen. “They've both endured worse,” he replies dryly. “When it comes to forgiveness, you're one to speak.”

Hannibal stops in his movement, and despite the fact that Will can't look over his shoulder to see his expression, he knows it is blank. “On the contrary,” he replies coolly. “I have been very forgiving with you, considering the circumstances.”

_Considering the circumstances. So how do you consider flinging us both off a cliff? How forgiving are you really?_

“We should have died there,” Will says, abruptly, as he frees himself from Hannibal's grip. He grabs one of the towels off the slightly unhinged towel rack and briefly pats down his wet arms and torso before wrapping it securely around his hips. 

Hannibal doesn't move, except to fold his hands together in front of himself – like he's sitting in his armchair back in the practice he had a lifetime ago, fully dressed, instead of dripping wet and naked in a tiny, German bathroom. “Died where?”

“The Atlantic.” In a moment of passive-aggression, Will grabs Hannibal's towel off the rack as well (he insists on using a fresh one for each shower, as opposed to the three-day-rule Will has grown up with) and uses it to towel off his hair and face, then tosses it in the vague direction of Hannibal himself. Still manages to catch it, somehow – Will can see his hazy figure in the fogged up mirror snatch it from the air before it hits the wet floor. “That was where this story was supposed to end. I don't know, call it the ending scene to the closing chapter.”

Hannibal doesn't reply for a while, simply wraps the towel around his hips (too low – he somehow managed to make covering up more obscene than standing there fully nude) and then finally walks over – _prowls_ over – to stand behind Will once more, but this time without immediately holding him in place. “It was,” he says calmly. “I believed that to be rather clear.”

What? Of course it wasn't. “We're still alive.”

“Yes.”

“So clearly, that chapter isn't finished.”

A slow smile spreads over Hannibal's face, and Will knows that a few years ago, that same smile would have made him shudder with revolt. Now, he just frowns. “What?”

“It's finished, Will. You wrote that last full stop yourself.”

Now it's _really_ getting frustrating. Will whips around and looks Hannibal directly in the eye, hoping to somehow get that smirk off of his face, but it won't budge. “Then what is this? A stretched-out epilogue?”

“I prefer to think of it as a sequel, or perhaps part of a trilogy; if the first part is Your Becoming, I am very curious if this part will be ours.”

Oh. Will blinks, frowns, huffs an unconvinced laugh, frowns again. “What? What does that mean? What happens in this part, then? What is 'Our Becoming'?”

The smirk turns into a smile. Softer around the edges, more private. Something Will is certain very, very little people have ever seen. “Whatever you feel we were meant to be.”

“I could do with a little more help than that cryptic shit,” Will snaps, but after a beat of silence, he backpedals a little nonetheless. “What do you think we're meant to be? What do you _hope_ we're meant to be?”

Hannibal's answer is simple in its predictability, yet so heavily loaded in its tone that it still makes Will think. “Together is all I dared hope for. The definition of what we are is trivial, as long as I have you.”

A long, out-stretched silence. He doesn't expect an immediate response, does he? No, of course not. He wants Will to think about it, think it through, preferably spend sleepless nights mauling over it to know it has made enough impact, and then share his verdict after the grape seeds that are now planted in his mind have turned into rich wine. Still, it feels wrong to say nothing at all, so Will blurts out the first thing that comes to mind. “It aroused you when I said I wanted to kill you.”

 _Yes, that sounds like great casual conversation. 'Did you see the game last night? I felt your murder boner just then. The weather is lovely, today!'_ Oh, God.

Still, Hannibal is surprisingly mild, considering how easy it would be to make this very humiliating in a _very_ cruel way (“and you got hard watching me bleed – but I'd hardly call that fitting conversation for the time being, _William_ ”). All he does is raise an eyebrow. “Yes, it did.”

“In the same way you're flattered I want to kill you? Or is the thought of being murdered by itself... a thing, for you?” Honest to God, he wouldn't be surprised.

Hannibal squints a little, and Will has no idea whether it's one of his micro smiles or a sign that he's offended. Not that he'll ever know, because within a moment, he pulls himself together and his expression goes carefully calculating. “Do you remember what I said about how I feel about you ending my life?”

Will frowns. “That it means I want to... experience you?”

“Yes. This is a different form of blood thirst than you had after what happened with Abigail, is it not? You were outraged, back then. Your anger fueled your desire to kill. Your despise, your revolt. Is that still the case?”

Will doesn't answer. Doesn't have to. They both know it; no, that's not the case. No more despise, no revolt. Not even anger. Something much, much stronger than that – and also much more positive.

“I thought so,” Hannibal goes on, almost as if reading his mind. He steps in closer; now they _are_ touching, chest to back, once again. “Meaning that it is something else driving you, and I was bold enough to let myself hope that it mirrors the way that I feel.”

Closer, closer. Will can feel his hot breath against the shell of his ear, and only notices his eyes have fluttered shut long afterwards. He isn't quite growing hard yet from the sound of his voice and his breath on his skin alone, but God, with everything that he's saying it's a close call. It all bears a whole lot more erotic meaning than it has any right to.

“Do you want to know how I feel, Will?” Hannibal purrs. Will doesn't open his eyes, only nods.

“I feel that if there is one person, one spirit, one being that has the right to end your life, _take_ your life, it would be me. No other man, no ocean, no god – only me, because I am afraid my desire for you has long since crossed the borders of possessiveness when it comes to something as precious as the breath in your lungs.”

Desire. The word thrums in Will's ears, along with his heartbeat. Oh. _Oh_ , fuck. “Your death doesn't arouse you,” he mutters. “My desire for you does.”

At that, Hannibal nips at his earlobe, and Will draws in a sharp breath. It's not a gasp quite yet, but Christ, it was a close call. His cheeks heat up nevertheless. 

“Yes,” Hannibal growls lowly. “Yes, it does.”

“And the hands.” Will tries not to get too distracted by the way Hannibal's mouth now trails down his neck unashamedly, but fails spectacularly when his mind still goes blank at the feeling of hot lips and a cheeky tongue just below his jaw. “That excites you too, doesn't it? The idea that I would be so physical about it, so _personal_. The thought that I would take your last breath skin to skin, so intimate that it's almost... sensual.”

At that, Will can feel Hannibal's hips press against him, and admittedly, he's a little impressed at exactly _how hard_ he is already, not exactly rubbing his cock against his ass just yet, but absolutely having to make an effort to restrain himself. Will had no idea he could even get that hard without being touched once, let alone at his age. “Fuck, this really does turn you on.”

Hannibal, of course, refuses to be embarrassed about it. “As does it arouse you.”

It does. God, it really, really does. The towel around his waist is tented in the most obscene way, and it feels terrifyingly much like reliving his teenage years, in which hot water usually ran out in the morning before he could ever get rid of his morning wood, and he would have to sneak back to his room with a humiliated flush on his cheeks and a tent in his towel without being caught by his dad in order to finish the job. Except now, he kind of loves being caught. “ _Yes._ ”

Hannibal's teeth scrape lightly over the side of Will's neck; he visibly shivers, has to bite back a noise that would have mortified him, probably. God, his mind is fogging up way quicker than it has any right to. “Permission to touch?”

 _Encouraged to touch._ “You're already touching.”

Will can't quite see it, but it's almost as if he can _feel_ the look Hannibal is giving him.

“Fine, yes, _of course_ , permission granted.”

He bucks his hips up almost instinctively, or at least encouragingly, but of course, Hannibal ignores him. He lets his hand run over his chest instead, slowly drops it down to his largest scar, then up again, up even further, until his fingers are splayed over the point where he can feel his heart hammer against his ribcage – and up even further, until his long, strong fingers are wrapped loosely around his throat.

God, Hannibal could kill him just like that if he wanted to. Snap his neck, crush his windpipe, slowly strangle him to death; at this point Will isn't even surprised anymore when his cock jumps up at the thought. Hannibal knows exactly what he's doing, exactly how to play him.

“Tell me,” he demands. “How would you experience me?”

Will swallows. His hands itch to reach down and touch himself, relieve at least a part of the tension that's building up, but he knows better than to do that when he's practically enveloped in Hannibal's arms; the 'don't touch, this is mine' signal is pretty obvious, and Will is rather sure even he won't be an exception to the rule. 

“I would take my time,” he replies, a bit breathlessly.

According to the steady purr in Hannibal's voice, he isn't shocked. “You wish to torment me?”

“No. I want you to be aware of what I'm doing to you. Aware of what I'm creating for you. I want you be with me throughout the entire thing, right up to the moment you're not.”

Will can feel Hannibal's cock twitch against his left buttock, and Hannibal grinds against him once with a low growl. “Continue.” And then, as an additional thought: “Imagine it _properly._ ”

And that's it. The pendulum swings in front of his eyes, behind his eyes, through him, back and forth. 

Back.

Forth.

Back.

Forth.

When the blackness subsides, they're on the bed – Hannibal's bed – and, to Will's surprise, still nude. This wasn't part of his original design, but perhaps there are things in reality that even his subconscious can't let go of.

“I have you sit down on your bed,” he mutters to him. “I climb on top of you; you let me.”

Faintly, in another world, Will can feel Hannibal roll his hips again, as a firm palm rubs over the tent in his towel with just enough pressure to tease, but hardly to please. Christ, he's insufferable.

“You would let me,” Will realizes. The scene hasn't changed yet, not quite, but he's still hyper aware of the fact that Hannibal can hear him. “You wouldn't hesitate for a moment.”

“I wouldn't dare to,” he replies, as he grinds his hand down particularly well. Will groans. “What else?”

The scene shifts, moves, changes. At this point Will isn't certain whether it's just his imaginary him rocking his hips against Hannibal's, or whether it's an echo from reality, but either way, it feels amazing and he barely finds the strength to speak, in fear the illusion will burst. “I... I'm seeing something entirely different now than before. This is not how I envisioned it.”

“Good,” Hannibal praises him, like that had been the idea all along. “Describe it to me.”

“You know exactly what's going on. I'm straddling you, pushing you down until you're lying down on your back. I keep my hands firmly planted on your chest. You can push me away if you want to, but you don't – of course you don't. You're enjoying this. Loving this. You know what I'm about to do, and...”

Will feels his face flush, his hips rock, his cock rub up to whatever it was he is humping himself against (he assumes it is Hannibal's hand; could also, embarrassingly, be the sink, probably), but it's so much more intense as he views it. He can see Hannibal there, laid out underneath him, eyelids drooping, a hint of color on his cheeks, strong hands firmly planted on Will's hips to keep him steady and seated. And Christ, he's so - 

“Tell me.” Hannibal's voice is so low that Will isn't quite sure whether it's supposed to be threatening or arousing, but it has the effect of both. “And what?”

“And you're looking at me like you want have me as your last meal on death row.”

At that, he feels teeth digging into his skin, just hard enough to hurt a little, just enough to make it feel good. “Your empathy is admirable, Will. It truly is. Go on.”

“I – oh, _yes_ -” because the image blurs vaguely when Will definitely feels his towel drop and a firm, yet surprisingly slick hand wrap firmly around his cock, “- just like that.”

Still, he doesn't move. “Keep talking, Will.”

Fucking bastard. It takes a little bit of focus, but finally, the image is back again. Hannibal underneath him, legs on either side of his body, and an impressive erection trapped underneath him. He grinds his hips down; it earns him a low groan. “I have you pinned down. Hands on your chest. Moving upwards, your collar bones, the dip at the base of your throat, and then finally your throat -” 

No. It's all wrong. It's all so wrong. Will goes rigid almost immediately. The design is flawed, it doesn't add up. In this position, it would be far too easy to corrupt the plan, and even when it's not the intention to struggle, he knows that instinctively, Hannibal will have to. That would be more than he can handle, so it has to be fixed.

“Will?” Hannibal asks, softly, sensing the change in demeanor. 

“Yes,” he replies. When he opens his eyes, they're both back in the bathroom, with Hannibal all over him and his spit-slicked hand wrapped inelegantly around his cock, mid-stroke. The fog on the mirror has cleared up a bit, or at least enough for Will to see how debauched he looks, with damp hair at odd angles, a heated face and an almost pornographically turned on look on his face. It probably ought to worry him, how much talking about this turns him on, but at the moment he frankly doesn't give one flying shit.

“I made a mistake,” he explains. “Because you can't be seated on the bed. You have to be tied up.”

At that, Hannibal raises his eyebrows, visible in the mirror. “Do you think I would let you?”

Slowly, Will feels himself sink again, feels the pendulum swing again, lure him back in, but more gradually than usual. It's almost as if he's drifting there, instead of plunging in. “I think you would want me to, eventually. Show you what it would be like if I were the one in control, show off what I have become, have grown to be.”

“I broke you and you want to show me how you've mended yourself back together.” He mutters it against the skin where shoulder meets neck, against the still sore spot from where he had bitten him. Hannibal almost looks feral at this point, and somehow, Will finds it touching. It's the most out of control he has ever seen him, with his guards down enough to show that this is pleasing him, to show that Will is, well, somehow worthy of seeing him so genuinely affected by anything, albeit not truly emotionally, but certainly sexually.

For a moment, Will wonders if Alana has seen him like this – but then Hannibal looks straight at him in the reflection, and no. No, she never would have seen him like this, because the terrifying look of hunger on his face would have sent her screaming from his bed, fumbling for her phone to call Jack and turn in the Chesapeake Ripper. Seeing him like this was reserved for Will only.

“You have me tied up, yours to do whatever you want with, keep going.”

And then, Will has sunk back again, straddling Hannibal's hips, except this time his hands are tightly bound to the headboard. Not tight enough to cut off circulation and be uncomfortable, but tight enough to make sure he can't – and won't – at any point be able to free himself. A necessary precaution, but at the moment, all it does is give him a thrilling sense of power. He grinds down, lets his cock rub firmly over Hannibal's, and faintly hears their mixed groans; for a made up image, it has absolutely no right to feel so good.

“What would you do with me, Will?” Hannibal asks, words muttered hoarsely and almost filthily into his ear. “Our last moments together, how would you fill them in?”

Will feels himself grind down another few times, but that's not it. He knows it's not. “I... _oh, fuck_ , I ride you,” he gasps, and it's then that he feels himself grab behind him, lift himself up and slowly, with quivering thighs, presses Hannibal's hard cock against his entrance. 

Somewhere higher up, above the service, he feels Hannibal's hand move over his cock a bit more quickly.

“Have you ever done that before, Will? Have you been penetrated by a man?”

Will's cheeks are burning, and at this point he genuinely wouldn't know whether Hannibal is actually inside of him or not, because it feels so _real_. The idea of being filled up like that, stretched beyond limits, pried open by persuasive fingers and coaxing words muttered into his ear with an almost filthy undertone in them – the idea of Hannibal _literally inside of him_ , it's almost too much. When he rocks his hips, he can feel his muscles flutter and clench around his hard cock so clearly, that it almost feels like Hannibal has ripped him open, broken his ribcage and crawled in, all the way.

“No,” he whispers back. “Never.” _But I want you to. Fuck, I want you to._

“But you still want this, specifically this, on my deathbed. Feel the pulse under your fingers as you crush my windpipe, feel the throbbing of my member against your most sensitive spot...” Will almost founds himself laughing at the word 'member' (but to be frank, he would definitely be laughing if he said 'dick'), but the truth of it all is enough to make him moan instead.

“Yes.” He rocks his hips again, somewhere between Hannibal's cock and his hand around his own, somewhere between fantasy and reality, but it all feels the same. “ _God, yes_.”

“Would you want to feel it slow down? Choke the breath out of me and feel my heartbeat falter so deep inside of you?” Even as he's saying it in a cool controlled tempo, Will can hear the breathlessness in his words, the strain in his voice. 

God, for a moment he doesn't even know how to form words with his mouth anymore. All that comes out once he parts his lip is an embarrassing “ah, _ah_ , fff- _aster_ ”, which earns him a firmer grip, but Hannibal stops moving. Instead, he lets him fuck his fist, set the pace, chase the sparking, crawling hot feeling building up in his abdomen. This is going way quicker than it has any right to go, and for a moment, Will is struck by the humiliating thought that this is exactly how Hannibal wants it; Will thrashing, bucking his hips like a startled horse out of control, while he silently takes his pleasure and waits to finish until he's back into the safety and privacy of his own room, never quite allowing Will to see him break down like that.

Well, that's not going to happen. Not if he has any say in it.

“You – oh, _God_. Yes, that is what I want. I want to feel it, I want to consume it. Have you get used to the feeling of my – _fuck_ – my fingers around your throat. But that's not the point of it. I don't want you dead while...” He can't bring himself to say it. Instead, he keeps on going: “I want to see you come, before you pass out. I want to feel it, see your mouth go slack, see the pleasure spark behind your eyes. I want the lights in them to flare up before they burn out.”

Hannibal laughs, but in a very husky, rumbling way. “You wish to send me off to heaven and then promptly slam the door shut behind me before I can return.”

The corresponding laugh is less rumbling, more... whiny. Christ, if his face hadn't been burning before, it certainly was now. “ _Oh- ah..._ Yes, in a sense – _fuckohgoddon'tstop_.”

He doesn't stop. Hannibal never stops. Will is trapped somewhere between the real hand on his cock and the fake cock inside of him and it doesn't even matter because they both feel so good and now it's definitely Hannibal who does the rocking because there is something very hot and very real grinding down against his buttock and he knows he's close, they both are, _so so close..._

When Hannibal speaks again, it sounds like a cocktail of seduction and a warning for Will to run for his life while he still could. “There's just one problem with that idea, my dear Will,” he says softly, growls softly, almost pants. “Because after all that we have done, all that we have been through, do you really think you could just _fuck_ me past the gates of heaven?”

And for some fucked up, distorted reason Will _really_ doesn't want to think about (he would later try to convince himself that it was the word 'fuck' said in Hannibal's voice – while he very much knows that that's not the _only_ reason), that's exactly the last push he needs – and suddenly he is drowning again, with burning lungs and screaming bones and white waves washing over him, over him, over him, as his hips stutter and still and a sharp yelp is pulled from his gasping lungs. It feels so good that it hurts, so intense that every muscle in his body seems to tense and cramp and knot together forever and it's all so much that he almost misses the way Hannibal gives one more sharp thrust against him and comes too, with fingernails dug deep into the skin just above his hips and teeth sinking into his shoulder and a groan that sounds like the single most erotic thing Will has ever heard and – 

And in that moment, there is no fantasy, no reality. Only them, together. The very start of Their Becoming.

And God, if Will isn't looking forward to whatever their sequel has in store for them.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on Tumblr (ravenmeister.tumblr.com) to stay updated on any future fics!


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